Je t'aime En Vogue
by lovemeartless
Summary: England and France have always longed to be friends. But as Nations at war, this wish came at a staggering cost. Can their friendship endure amidst the conflict plaguing their countries? A teen FrUK story by my twisted headcanon of how far history took their obsessions with our two dear Nations factored in. (Warning: This is yaoi/BL.)(Please read complete story warnings carefully.)
1. All Is Fair In Fashion & Passion

**Some French Terms Used:** _chéris amis_ – beloved friends / _très mignon –_ very cute / _grand frère –_ big brother

 **Warnings:** Mildly graphic depictions of child abuse, blood, violence, torture, and death. Oh, and I almost forgot— corsets. 83

 **Disclaimer:** Please take the time to read the (lengthy) standard disclaimer on my profile page. It's for _all_ my Hetalia stories, so once you've read it you'll never have to read it again, yay! Cheers!

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Story #151:

 **"Je t'aime En Vogue"**

* * *

Prologue - **All Is Fair In Fashion & Passion**

The singular, most outstanding memory he had of _him…_ was when they first met… No, not that time by the lake when he declared his greatest dream was conquest of the other- the true first moment they saw each other…

 **-x-**

The earliest England stands on the edge of Dover overlooking the Channel, imagining what wonders lay in the strange land beyond— when _he_ appeared (whom then England perceived was a ' _she_ '), and they met eye to eye. The neighbouring stranger with sunlit hair, teetered precariously at the very edge of Calais, as she waved in his direction eagerly.

 _She's sightly, though a bit peculiar… Maybe… we could become friends_ …?

Those were England's very first thoughts on the matter… And it could be said, _that they still very much are._

 **-x-**

"You summoned, your Majesty?"

"Yes, come quickly!"

The queen swept aside, revealing a life-like doll on a wooden chair. On it, a flowing dress of intricate embroidery, glimmering gems in different shapes and sizes, and opulent layers of frills and ribbons sewn seamlessly into the fabric; all enhancing a stunning, slender hourglass-shaped contour.

"Don't you think it pretty?"

The dress was _indeed_ pretty… if not exquisitely grotesque.

Curious, the doll donned shoulder-length vanilla-blond waves where the queen's rich mane was crimped and brunette; It was easy to tell the ensemble was not for the queen. There were more differences… The doll was much smaller, yet elongated- mimicking the would-be body of a young flat-chested girl. Though, it was unlikely to fit any living girl he knew… In fact, the more England stared at it, the more the dress looked like some macabre instrument of torture.

"Inspired by the latest fashion from our— _chéris amis_ across _la Manche_ , as you may have been wondering…" the queen droned, a flitting pang of derision in her tone but quickly reverting to her usual cloying demeanour. " _La petite belle France_ … I hear her beauty rivals that of the sun!* I've been dying to see her with my own two eyes! You are friends, are you not…?"

England almost wrinkled his nose at that but managed to keep his countenance neutral. "We have our exchanges your Majesty, but we're not accurately—"

"Excellent!" the queen trilled dismissively, bejewelled fingers clasping together.

Gliding over to the life-size figure, she wrapped her arms around it from behind, affectionately brushing aside wisps of hair from its blank face. Her long painted fingernail ran up its cheek tracing patterns that seemed to bleed scarlet…

And for the longest instant, it was suddenly France's supine body in the queen's arms… France's vacant glazed eyes staring up at him accusatorily. England's blood ran cold.

" _Because…_ " the queen's voice broke through the young Nation's stupor. _"…it would be a shame to waste this dress, wouldn't you agree…?_ "

 **End of Prologue.  
Continued in Part I.**


	2. Falling For the Enemy

I – **Falling For the Enemy Never Goes Out of Fashion**

* * *

" _Go now!_ "

England ground out. Teeth chattering as his fingernails dug harshly into the hilt of his sword.

" _Quoi…?!_ "

"I said go! You're bloody free to go, now get out of here!" He retracts his blade from the mud and turns to spit the blood from his mouth.

Slowly, shakily France got to his feet. His gaze bore into his young enemy's back, feeling cheated of defeat and wretched to even have engaged in this travesty of a duel. Such an odd place to find himself, after only moments ago when the younger Nation's unsteady blade was poised at his neck…

He preferred England's blade, over his mercy. There was always a catch when the English Nation showed him kindness in the battlefield. Now that England was relinquishing his win and refusing to take him prisoner, it scared him to quite a degree; Far more than the prospect of defeat, humiliation, or torture.

He knew why they had come. He had known for some time now that The Queen of the Sceptred Isle coveted France – _him,_ to be more specific. And it wasn't that he didn't expect them to come sooner or later, but he was hoping against hope that it wasn't _this_.

The queen's soldiers, he was prepared to face. But not England himself, not when he was still so young, and was almost never sent to battle if not to serve as a mere beacon. The moment he caught sight of the younger Nation's slight form clad in heavy armour and unsheathing his sword, he knew only too well— _this was one of those battles he was destined to lose before it began._

All these bloody rendezvous… all these _wars_ , and everything he came to know as a Nation ceased to make sense ever since countless years ago— _once upon a time in the woods_ … _when he first came face to face with a pair of unforgettable eyes that seemed to defy nature itself in its innocent splendour_. He understood then. There were battles far more important than the ones he had been fighting up to now; One not won by soldiers, armament or bloodshed… _A battle to win another's heart._

He understood that his real destiny… was that of a prisoner.

 _A prisoner to his own heart._

" _Non_." Young France stood tall in spite of himself. And though his legs still shook badly from fatigue, his tone didn't waver, " _I lost._ "

"You bloody imbecile." England grated through blood-soaked teeth. "I said you're free to go! What bit of that don't you understand?!"

"You're ze one 'uu doesn't understand any'zing." replied the French boy, unable to mask the bitterness he felt. "I am never free. _Not now_ , _not ever…_ " He blindly reached forward, hands seeking that familiar warmth that was England, but only cold, stained armour met his fingers. "Do what you must widz me for ze queen, you will always be—"

" _No!_ " England snapped stepping away, heaving sharp, shaky breaths. "I am _not_! And we never will be! _You… are the enemy!_ "

" _S'il tu plait—_ " France advanced once more, but the tip of England's shaky blade came up between them. However, that wasn't really what stopped him…

" _I implore you…_ Don't make me change my mind." England's bleary eyes burned with unshed tears. "Make no mistake… I _will_ kill you if I must! So, go now! While I still have enough madness in me to allow it."

The French Nation met those eyes brazenly, fists balled up so tightly he could barely feel the bloody crescent moons blooming in his stood there challenging the other's resolve, wanting him to understand that none of this mattered to him anymore; Nothing could parallel the fear that consumed his heart at the thought of England's own life being in peril! All he wanted was to spare England of whatever punishment awaited if he didn't return with his prize. This was the second time England had been sent to capture him, _and the second time_ _he would fail_. And France knew –from the unnerving amount of bruises, cuts, and freshly formed scabs on the younger Nation even before their duel began– _that the queen_ _did not take kindly to failure_.

" _Non…_ " France said adamantly. "I won't let you do zis. _I vowed to protect you. It's what friends do!_ "

"I DON'T WANT HER HANDS ON YOU DON'T YOU BLOODY UNDERSTAND THAT?!"

For a few moments, England truly looked like a young boy instead of the embodiment of a powerful Nation. Tears welled up in his eyes and feeble sobs shook his delicate frame. But the image was gone too soon, as he viciously dried his eyes, the fire in it restored when he looked up again. "I don't wish to be indebted to you… of all people."

Before France could say more, the sound of hooves rumbled ominously in the distance, and suddenly the ground beneath him had vanished, suddenly he was beyond the cliff's edge, momentarily suspended over the raging waters below. But the young Nation's push hadn't been strong enough, and only a few feet into the fall he manages to grab onto some protruding rocks and roots; He dangled steep enough to remain unseen, but still close enough to hear what transpired above.

"Where is the filthy little Nation?!" A man's scratchy voice boomed.

"G-got away…" England's stammered breathlessly. His voice seemed so small in France's ears all of a sudden.

"What?! Again, you've failed her majesty!"

"N-next time I promise, I'll—!"

A loud crack reverberated across the mountain, and France's bloody palms dug deeper into the earth.

 _They hit him…!_ _How could those soldiers hit their own Nation_? England may be half immortal but he was still a child –a child of thirteen years human age in appearance! _The heartless bastards!_

The blow sounded hard enough to knock even a grown man unconscious, and the silence that followed confirmed his fears. When the sound of galloping hooves faded away completely, he gingerly hauled himself up and collapsed to his knees.

Only the tell-tale signs of the battle that had transpired minutes ago remained…

England was nowhere in sight.

 **End of Part I.  
Continued in Part II...**


	3. In The Name of Being Fashionably In Love

II - **In the Name of Being Fashionably In Love**

* * *

England woke in a haze, everything felt oddly numb.

Gradually, a stifling pressure bearing down on his midsection from all angles became prevalent, as though that strip of him had been trampled over by a mad flurry of horse-drawn carriages. He strove to take in a deep breath but could afford no more than few laboured shallow wheezes and he ends up coughing painfully from the effort. Before the young Nation could gather his wits about, guards burst through the door and powerful hands wrap around his arms and lift him up. They drag him to the Queen's chamber and– having no strength to stand on his own– is propped up before her, hanging limply with shoulders and elbows jutting at odd angles like a ragdoll on strings.

"Hullo, little England~" came the queen's sickly syrupy voice. "Did you sleep well?"

He wills himself to speak but no sound comes. Too groggy from the mounting pressure in his chest, he is barely able to keep even his head upright, and his arms had begun to throb dully as well. Gasping short pained breaths, he craned his neck downwards to the unrelenting pressure in his stomach, and at once what little blood remaining drained from his face as realization dawned upon him.

The glistening jewels and teeming frills— there was no mistaking it…!

 _The dress of death was on him!_

England's build was modest, almost feminine in size, but his frame was still broader and bonier in comparison to the skinny girl the dress had been tailored to. To say he filled the dress to bursting was preposterously understating it. By the look and feel of his waist which was now reduced to an unbelievable periphery, he knew the outer corset had been stringed several notches tighter than what would have been humane…

 _He was slowly, excruciatingly being asphyxiated._

" _Alors_! I imagine you did! After all the trouble I went through to make you comfortable." The queen paused for a moment then resumed her one-sided conversation, "You see, I think myself a _reasonable_ queen… I _never_ ask for anything impossible and yet— the little French cur _is still not within my grasp!_ _Why is that, I wonder…?"_

Fresh bruises were blooming where the sentries' dug into England's flesh like iron clamps, and battle wounds were starting to reopen and bleed. Try as he might to get them to loosen their hold, he only ended up accomplishing the very opposite. With each painstaking attempt to regain control of his arms, they only held him more brutally, as though fearing he would overpower the lot of them and escape. Perhaps it was wise on their part because despite the odds, England was very tempted to try, and he was no mere mortal after all. But even Nations knew when a fight is lost. He gave up struggling eventually, allowing his body to dangle heavily, too exhausted and dizzy to fight.

" _I asked you a question._ " Reiterated the queen, the tension in her voice rising threateningly.

" _I… I failed… I beg… your Majesty's… fore… forgiveness…!_ " England's head throbbed horrendously with every word he managed to force out.

" _Exactemant_! You've already failed me once, and this is how you redeem yourself? _How you repay my graciousness_?! **Again you've failed to bring me that wretch of a Nation!** " She was screeching now. And the noise splintered his fogged mind like a cannonball ripping through trees. He became dumbly fixated by his bloody drool starting to pool on the plush carpet. "I see now that subjecting you to conventional punishment did not motivate you into putting more effort into capturing your prey. Perhaps a completely different approach would garner more… _desirable results._ "

The irksome rapping of heeled shoes grow louder until her breath was hot against his ear, "I happen to have it on good authority… _that you let him escape._ "

England's heart skipped a beat.

"Do you deny this?"

The young Nation struggled for something to say, but his mind swimming on the brink of oblivion could bring forth no argument convincing enough, nor could he summon the breath required to speak it. He no longer felt his arms; He could scarcely feel the rest of his body. He knew he was on the brink of losing consciousness, and he prayed it would come mercifully quick.

"No matter," She whipped around, her voice turning icy, "I do not tolerate failure, nor excuses! And I most certainly will not stand for treason, least of all from an impudent brat like you!" The queen paced her throne leisurely as if intending to draw out his agony as much as possible, then settled on her throne, signalled to her soldiers, and resumed, "I've heard rumours about you and _her_. Do not think for a second that a mere wisp of a child like you can be clever enough to fool me. I have _very_ _good sources_."

Despite his dwindling consciousness, the words arrived crisp and clear to England's mind. He could not help being attentive when it came to the Nation he grew up with –the one he's always had special feelings for (though he has yet to discern what kind). There was a time when England imagined that it could be love. And he wanted to believe it… alongside magic and his mystical friends –maybe he still did- even if he learned later and too soon, that such happy stories were not meant for him or his kind. His heart, and all of his being were to be devoted solely to his country, and nothing, or no one else. So for his country, he taught himself not to feel it, not to want it. Finding no honourable justification for his actions earlier, he determined to bravely accept this punishment that he convinced himself he deserved.

Still, how laughable it was that his feelings for the French boy –whatever they truly were– was in every essence, once again, _taking his breath away_ …

 _Just like the first time…_ _and every single bloody time since…_

 **-x-**

 _The first time soldiers came to get him, England remembers… they were playing. Young France was teaching him a game called 'Hide and Seek'. He said, England was to hide, and not come out until he said so. So England did. And waited._

 _And waited…_

 _Until night had almost fallen, the sky turned gloomy, and it began to rain…_

 _But France never came back._

 _When little England finally crept out of his hiding-place, cold and shivering, he realized bitterly that it was all but a cruel joke, and France was most likely laughing at him now, wherever he was. For the first time, he let his emotions betray him, and he hung his head to let the tears mingle with the rain. He kept telling himself he hated France, and the wrenching pain in his heart had nothing to do with anything else… That's right. They were enemies… and will always be._

 _Enemies can never be friends._

 _It has never stopped raining in his heart, ever since._

 **-x-**

And despite that, a ghost of a smile finds its way to his lips at the bitter recollection. _Why was any dream of France –no matter how painful- always sweeter than reality?_

The queen's words were lost to him as his mind finally succumbed to the seeping darkness. He welcomes it and surrenders but all too soon consciousness is flooding back as he feels his body collapse to the floor, the compressed vacuum inside his lungs expand, making his ears pop, blood and breath filling his veins without restraint. His body spasms as he launches into a fit of wheezing and coughing, instinctively curling into a ball as the numbness gradually ebbs from him and is supplanted with a fresh assortment of aches and pains. He could feel his brain wanting to split open from sheer physical shock; He clutches at his midsection and retches.

 _The corset had been loosened._

"This was a test… to disprove those rumours." The queen's voice floated back to his disorientated mind in undulating waves like he was submerged underwater. "I've seen that fledgling in battle. She is strong –strong enough to pose a threat if she truly desired… yet how _interesting_ that when pitted against **you** – _for some reason_ , she loses much of her will to fight. That led me to believe only one of two possibilities: _First_ , that she regards you an opponent not worth her real effort –which I highly doubt; _Or second_ — that she has somehow allowed herself to be hopelessly taken with you –as many who came before her, and paid dearly for it might I add! Either way worked to your advantage. I imagined it would have been no trouble at all to seize her under such favourable circumstances…"

England remained in his foetal position unable to move, trying to get enough air into his system while everything swam and spun before him. But all too soon he was hefted up again, this time two of the brawny men who were merely stationed as guards joined the other two in supporting his weight from behind. His entire body began to tremble violently.

"Therefore, the only logical explanation for your ineptitude would be that you _chose_ to fail— _you allowed her to escape_!"

England's lips began to quiver as he felt the sentries behind him grip the cords of the lavishly studded outer corset. He was filled with dread at what was coming, and with a powerful push and pull, the rigid garment promptly clenched around his midsection with blindingly crushing force. He screamed until his voice faltered and deserted him. Tears pooled at the corners of his eyes, and once again he couldn't breathe, as though he had been skewered all over by a horde of antler tines.

"It should never have come to this, my sweet little England… If you had not deigned to commit such vile treachery, all for the sake of…" The queen blinked several times, her big owlish blue eyes drifting distantly into space. "No… it can't be…"

Slowly, a crazed mania filled her eyes, and her lips assumed a triumphant smile. Her features flitted from madness to disgust, before she is lost in a fit of hysterical laughter. When she had calmed down some, she fixes England with an affected sympathetic look. Her gloved fingers daub at the tear trails on his cheek then hook beneath the boy's dainty chin, tilting his head up with mock gentility.

"Yes… Yes, that's right… you told me the two of you weren't friends… and it's true, isn't it? How can you be friends…

"When you, my dearest England, are taken with her as well!"

The ringing in England's ears intensified.

And his silence as good as any confession.

" **Filthy traitor**!"

An onslaught of pain in a flash of blinding white is all he knows before he feels his body smash into the floor once again. His heart thundered madly in his chest, gasping in the precious few moments of reprieve from the constricting bindings before the four burly sentries gather round and hoist him back upright. This time the world didn't stop spinning for far longer, the high-pitched ringing bounced to and fro in both hemispheres of his skull, and blood oozed from where the queen's jewel-encrusted fingers had smacked his mouth.

"You're too soft, my love…" she cooed, pressing her mouth to the Nation's torn and swollen lips, flicking her tongue at the exposed ragged flesh, savouring how sweet he tasted, and how soft and pliant his lips were under her dry and heavily rouged ones. "I will not allow you to be manipulated by our enemies and have you running amok against your own people. You have to be set straight and punished you for your weakness. It is my duty after all, _as your queen._ "

She stepped back, licking her lips and England's vision dimmed as he felt the men's boots press against his back and the cords of the laced corset seize his mangled body once again. A silent scream ripped through him as his spine is forcefully drawn out; head thrown back from the sheer pain of it –blood now trickled from his nose, mingling with the tears streaming down his cheeks. Arthur Kirkland has never felt more human, and more close to death than he was feeling now. The harrowing seconds of being painstakingly crushed alive seemed to draw out an eternity.

When the stringed laces would go no further, they are secured behind England in ribboned knots. He is then lifted up and made to lie on a plush scarlet divan against deep velvet pillows. The colours were so surreal through his fogged vision. It was a comfortable place to die, England thought, as his eyelids descended over the world almost completely. He could feel the queen's feathery strokes upon his forehead as she cleaned his face with a damp cloth. His body stayed lifeless, like a perfect life-sized doll…

Here he was now, enduring unimaginable pain for someone he had sworn to hate. _And even now,_ when all of him was going numb with agony and fear, his heart still ached in that familiar peaceful melancholy it always did at the thought of the other… _He could not stop it, he didn't know how…_

It must be attributed to the fact that he wasn't a full-fledged mortal that he could still afford to feel –and bear– so much pain. France once told him that they can't really be killed. Not as long as their countries lived on. And in a sense, that made his suffering all the more substantial. It was an odd feeling; how his heart swelled proudly at being made to suffer for the sake of selfishly protecting someone. Someone he cared about…

And maybe it was true… that he loved France, after all. He couldn't help it for all the world, he just did. Even if he tried, he could not stop how fast his heart pounded at the thought of him, and how he would forget to breathe at the sight of the French Nation's twinkling indigo-blue eyes and his disarming smile. He knew it was wrong, but nothing ever felt more right in his topsy-turvy life.

Now that the Queen and his people were on to him, he knew he was supposed to feel shame and remorse, but he didn't. Strangely, he felt liberated. Like he no longer had any regard for whatever consequences would befall him. He never asked to be a Nation. He didn't ask to fall in love either.

Both things he never wanted, but they just were… _like pain, and death, and endless suffering that was this world…_

"How truly endearing of you to mean to suffer in her stead… I am not so cruel as to deprive you of such a noble act of love and courage. And you have endured bravely!" the queen murmured, the tenderness of her gesture oddly bringing about a calming feeling to his mind, but all the same her touch turned his already cold skin to frost. "Nevertheless, you must do your best to amend your feelings… for France is our sworn enemy, and she has ensnared you. It is my duty to look out for you, and in essence, our great Nation. You need to open your eyes to the truth… As long as you are England and she is France, there can never be anything between you except doubt and enmity… She is very much like this corset around you… _The tighter it gets, the more it steals away your breath, until you have none left…_

"It would do you well to remember that, _my sweet little England…_ "

England's eyes finally close. Everything becomes silent, save for the fading beats of his heart.

 **-x-**

 _France… my dearest enemy…_

 _Is this anything like the pain you have had to go through? You tried to hide it all this time, but I knew it… you've suffered to protect me too, all those times you never came back… You were always so cheeky back then, thinking you could conceal it from me…_

 _The huge bruises hidden beneath layers of clothing…_

 _The limp disguised as a happy spring in your step…_

 _All those times you drove me away… it's because you didn't want me to see what they do to you…_

 _I know the truth now, you know._

 _I wish I could have done something more for you than this…_

 _I wish…_

 ** _I wish I could be your friend._**

* * *

The Queen beheld England's lovely albeit marred face as his eyes flutter down gracefully, desperately, eventually veiling over his beautiful golden-flecked forest green orbs, _and looking every bit as glorious as a fallen angel_.

Even in his disgrace she could not deny the sheer power and will emanating from his breakable body. No matter how hard she strove to tame him, no matter how broken he was, she sensed the fight, the defiance… _the impudent child who was so proud of his crime._ As far as this battle was concerned, he had won. He had succeeded in keeping his beloved away from her clutches. He had managed to keep his own will despite the will of his people and his leaders bearing down on him. And at that moment the queen could not help but wonder… that perhaps these human Nations –these dreadful aberrations in the guise of human beings– were not truly under the influence of their respective countries as they had originally been led to believe…

 _Was it possible that they, in fact, possessed the freedom of will to pursue their own desires as they pleased all along, had they not known otherwise?_

But the implications of such an idea terrified her beyond anything. If the personifications broke free from their control and learned to live according to their own wills, what would the consequences be on the countries itself? It could very well be their ultimate undoing. It could even be the key to some cataclysmic revolution so grand scale and beyond imagining, that her mind was not quite ready to grasp it.

Certainly, she would have none of that, no! Too much was at stake and simply could not be risked.

These Nations –most of all, the Nations of England and France– they needed to be tamed if things were to run smoothly among their complex societies. She would make sure that their wills never strayed from that of their leaders– _this was of utmost importance_. And her intentions were precisely such. She would tame this boy who was England, and –if need be– go to lengths to accomplish the task, for she deemed herself a responsible queen. One who would not let her country fall in the name of a petty error committed by their naïve human fledgling of a Nation.

But of course, _power is far more important than love._

 **End of Part II.  
** **Concluded in Epilogue...**


	4. What's In A Name?

Epilogue - **What's in A Name?**

* * *

" _Bonjour petit lapin~! I found you! You are so verrry cute 'iding under zat bush!"_

" _What? You?! What are you doing here?"_

" _I came all ze way 'ere to be friends widz you of course! I am ze beautiful France~! But since we're friends now, you may call me Fr—"_

" _I don't want to be friends with you, frog! Go away!"_

" _Ehhh? But why not? Am I not fabulous enough to be your friend?"_

" _Well, no, but… I- I am told… Nations can't be friends…"_

" _Pfft… Hahahaha!"_

" _Whut?!"_

" _What complete and utter pony manure! Ohohon! You are too gullible petit lapin! Très mignon~!"_

" _B- But—!"_

" _C'mon, come out from un'zzer zere and give me your 'and!"_

" _Hey, what're you doing?! Unhand me!"_

" _Zere! Now zat we've shaken 'ands, we're officially friends! Oh~ I know I'm bigger and smarter zan you, but you don't 'ave to be afraid of your gorgeous grand frère~!"_

" _Who would be afraid of a foppish twit like you, you foppish twit!"_

" _Now, now, be nice and put down zat arrow! Ze proper way to greet someone for ze first time is to tell zem your name and say: 'Bonjour! 'Ow do you do?' Let's start over, oui? –Wait, keep ze arrow, yes? Good. So…_

" _What is your name?"_

"… _Fine! I… I am E- England."_

" _Non, non! Zatiss what you are. I meant your name, your real name as you."_

" _My real name…? Isn't England my real name?"_

" _See, my real name is Francis, Francis Bonnefoy."_

" _Francis…? What a foppish-sounding name…"_

" _Gah! It is not! You are so boorish! You should compliment me and say it is a lovely human name –because it is. And yours? I suppose your name is lovely too, oui?"_

" _I… I don't know… I don't…"_

" _You don't what…?"_

"… _I don't… need a real name!"_

" _Of course you do."_

" _I don't."_

" _You don'tz 'ave a name."_

"…"

" _I shall give you one then!"_

" _I said, I don't need it!"_

" _Whatzever! From now on, your name shall be—"_

 **-x-**

Many millennia later, the archetype from which inspired countless stories of enemies falling in love will become the most romantic and timeless love story of all. One that has never since gone out of fashion.

Two star-crossed lovers, who died for each other, against all odds, for the sake of love to prevail? It is, in fact, the story of two human Nations...

 _Their story._

 **The End.**

* * *

 **Notes:**

Though I have a queen there, and some battles going on, I didn't imagine any corresponding historical timeline or event, but I think I'd place it give or take around the Hundred Years War, when England kept coveting parts of France and vice-versa, so basically that's the allegorical premise. And though I kept imagining Queen Elizabeth I (who was a fashion icon), I honestly did not have any specific queen pegged when I was writing this. One thing is for sure, whoever she is, she a Francophile. (This originally had a much, much darker plot, I shied away from it at the final edits, pitying England... XI Haha, I've gone soft.)

 **x-** France's beauty was stunning, more so in his youth (with his filigree tunic sans the very macho facial and bodily hair) and was often mistaken for a girl. This is a personal headcanon I'd like to put behind the sentimental title "La Belle France". (Incidentally one of my favourite doujinshikas _Love Potion No.9_ also hinted at a similar idea in one of her omake comics). Also despite England's dissuasion that she was a 'he', the queen remains stubborn and chooses to believe France is a 'she'.

 **x-** In their second meeting, England is disappointed to learn that the pretty and odd girl beyond the Channel was, in fact, a 'he'. Very disappointed. Not relevant to my story, I just wanted to justify why he was so grumpy to France ever since. Haha.

 **x-** Part of my England-uke kink is a penchant for cross-dressing him. And I gave in to one of those, which was putting him in a magnificent dress and corset, which to me, are actual instruments of torture— as all things of perpetrating artificial-superficial beauty tend to be.

Can you imagine a very young, pretty feminine looking France laughing, 'ohohon'? I just cannot get over how cute it is!

Cheers & Happy New Year, lovelies!

* * *

(12/27/2012 - 01/03/2015)

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 **X-posted:** LM_Artless {AO3} / frukdilection {dA}

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 **My DBZ & other fics**: MariekoWest {AO3} / MewrSaidTheCat {FFnet}{dA}

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 **Original** (Hetero-) **Stories & Prose**: Lovisa_Baobab {AO3}  
 **Blog/Works Archive** : mariexfolie {fc2 blog}


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